Mortal Peril - 8

Snape's head fell to his chest, his shoulders drooping.

"You are no longer their teacher, Severus," Voldemort hissed. "Stop trying to spare them life lessons. You spent too long in the company of that dithering old fool, Dumbledore. He's corrupted you – made you soft."

"Yes, my Lord," Snape replied, returning to his potion.

Harry could barely contain his snort of disgust. There was nothing soft about Snape and even insinuating that Dumbledore had made an impression on the greasy git was insulting to the Headmaster's memory.

"Now that Harry is about to become my permanent guest, I'm ready to move on to the next phase in my rise to ultimate power," Voldemort said.

Harry raised his head, eyeing Voldemort warily.

"I imagine you are curious about my plans for your stay, Harry," he said, grinning evilly.

"Not particularly," Harry said through clenched teeth. "I really don't plan on staying long."

Voldemort tossed his head back and laughed mirthlessly. "Always the comedian. Unfortunately, your fate has no use for your delightful sense of humor."

"My fate?" Harry asked, certain he didn't want to know the answer.

With a wave of his wand, Voldemort summoned a long wooden packing crate – a crate large enough to hold the body of a not-quite-fully-grown man.

Oh, no! No, no, no!

"Is the potion ready, Severus?" Voldemort asked.

"Almost, my Lord," Snape answered, his eyes glinting when he caught Harry's panicked expression.

"Why don't you have the honor of explaining the future to young Harry," Voldemort said, clearly pleased with the proceedings.

"If you'd paid any attention at all during your time in my class, you would have already realized which potion I'm brewing," Snape said, using that same silky voice that he'd always used in class.

"Since I'm well aware of your dismal potion-making abilities, allow me to explain it to you. The Draught of Living Death is a NEWT-level potion, and its antidote needs to be administered immediately upon completion of brewing. That means it would have to be brewed right here in this room in order to awaken you before attempting an escape. A highly unlikely probability, is it not, Potter?"

The Draught of Living Death! Of course. Voldemort couldn't kill him outright or he'd destroy his own Horcrux. This potion would essentially keep Harry alive but still incapacitated and out of the way. It was a win-win situation.

Voldemort smiled at Harry's horrified dismay. Using his wand, he released Harry from the wall and levitated him across the room to the crate. Harry's struggles were for naught; he couldn't break the spell. The crate's lid lifted like a coffin, and Harry was roughly dropped inside. His breathing became labored as he tried to control his panic. This couldn't be happening.

"While Severus continues to brew the potion, listen closely to my orders, Harry. Listen to my plans to destroy the last of your strongholds – the last of your protectors," Voldemort said, his voice thick with anticipation.

Harry shook his head, trying unsuccessfully to rise.

Voldemort turned to face the gathered Death Eaters. "Bellatrix," he hissed.

"Yes, Master," the hateful voice replied.

"You and Fenrir take our forces and claim Hogwarts as ours. Now that I have the Potter boy, it's time for Albus Dumbledore's last stronghold of power to fall, thus completely marking his failure and my rise to glory. I believe the Aurors who abandoned their posts at the Ministry are there. Kill them all. Kill the Order members who are there, as well, but bring Mr. Malfoy to me. Do what you will with his mother and the remaining Parkinson women."